The Right Eye of God Page 4
They were about twenty miles north of Chihuahua when he saw the lights of an approaching car come up over a rise in the road, then suddenly blink out in a dip. Startled, he braked frantically, and at the last minute, with a sinking, hopeless feeling, saw the dark truck angled across the highway.
Then it was later and he remembered how dry his throat was as he slowly regained consciousness. He was lying in sand with his mouth open. There was a thick taste of grit on his tongue and he tried to spit, but there was no moisture to wet his lips.
Suddenly with sweeping alarm he thought of Meg and tried to open his eyes, but they were stuck shut. When he raised his hand to wipe away the blood, a sharp, wounding wave of pain rolled through him, and darkness closed over him again.
When he awoke the second time, he was dully surprised that he was crawling, pulling himself with his arms slowly toward Meg, who was prostrate on the sand, and there was a pinkish glow that made shadows around her body. He was puzzled when he saw the vague figure of someone leaning over her. He remembered making a hopeful sound that he couldn’t put into words and was perplexed by the polished leather boots that swam in front of his eyes and how one of them lifted and struck out toward him. The smashing pain in his head was sudden and then there was nothing.
Navarre sighed. Same old nightmare. Same old wave of guilt and desperation. Same old conviction that he couldn’t be mistaken about the leather boot that had crunched into his skull. And finally, the same old questions: why and who? They had haunted and frustrated him for two years because there was no way for him to discover the man who wore the leather boots. And now it seemed to be a certainty that Rodriguez, the vet who had saved his life, was involved in the death of the man who was like a brother to him. Not for a moment had Navarre deceived himself about his real motive for returning to Mexico. His assignment was a call from the past, and he had accepted it because he could no longer endure the unspent violence that trembled in him, impatient for release. He knew his attacker had acted because he had been surprised. Surprised doing what? That was the terrible question—hanging like a hammer over his head—to which he sought an answer and an outcome. For it meant, if what he believed was true, that Meg had been harmed beyond the wounds she suffered in the collision. Now, strangely, another who was dear to him had been tortured and killed near the same sad and lonely place where Meg had died. He didn’t believe in coincidences or directionless fate. However remote, there was a connection between the two deaths, and he was going to find it.
Navarre sighed again deeply. He knew his own salvation would not come until he solved the nightmare that had torn his life apart. Hebrano’s words about the daughter of Tato Hernandez came to his mind: “Your wife was an innocent victim. Gracia became one by choice.” He promised himself he would visit Gracia Esparza after he connected with Hebrano when he reached Chihuahua. Maybe she could answer some of the questions that haunted him.
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Chapter V
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After a breakfast of reheated stew, Navarre stood awkwardly clasping the old black Colt Hebrano had pressed into his hands. At the priest’s insistence, he repeated his promise to contact the cleric at his church in Chihuahua as soon as he found a hotel room there. In the short time he had spent with the desert priest, he had come to admire the man and wanted to strengthen their brief connection. It was Hebrano who placed his hands on Navarre’s shoulders, squeezed, and said, “Hey, up in the high country where I’m heading, there is great fishing. Maybe when all this is over you could come up to me.”
“I’d like that,” Navarre smiled, grateful for Hebrano’s gesture of friendship.
Almost an hour later, Navarre braked his car to a stop in the middle of the miserable road he had followed, certain from the sudden sinking and bumping noise from the left rear that the tire had sprung a leak and was flat. The Buick was filmed with a layer of fine yellow dust, some of which had filtered through the air vents and the air conditioner. There was grit on his clothing and in his mouth, and his throat was dry.
The heat was wretched when he stepped out of the Buick and crouched to examine the tire for a puncture. There was no visible sign of a rupture in the rubber, and it was too hot to look further. He opened the deep trunk and leaned inside to turn the butterfly screw that fastened the spare in place. The smell that suddenly rose in a putrid wave of stench was so thick and strong that his eyes watered and he gagged. He stumbled backwards involuntarily, slamming the trunk shut. Bewildered, he was stunned by his recollection of the unbearable stink of the sin eater dripping dishwater thrown by Hebrano and shedding noxious fumes from the wet, decaying layers of his moldering garments.
Fresh in his mind was the intense expression of malevolence and fierce hate that had transformed the filthy old Indian’s dark, leathery face dotted with specks of black pepper. Hebrano had revealed the brujo as a fraud and reversed the curse of his salt witchery on the grave of the curandera he’d killed, and abolished his power over the village peasants in the flames of the white cross and the sacred words he spoke. The sin eater had limped away, diminished, but not defeated.
And now Navarre realized that even before he had come upon the hairless, wrinkled old savage the late afternoon before, the brujo had slyly opened the trunk of the Buick, ruined the spare, and left a nasty reminder of himself—some death-smelling fragment of cloth from his body—to expand its foulness in the heat of the metal trunk. He had pierced the outside rear tire so it bled air slowly. Navarre wouldn’t discover the two surprises until the next day when he was stranded. When he opened the trunk he had seen the knife slit in the casing of the spare whitewall. It was ruined, and his large suitcase resting on the floor with his clothes in it was sure to be contaminated by the sickening stink.
It was obvious to Navarre why he’d been delayed. When the sin eater was forced out of the village, he must have gone directly to the farm of the vet. The vet must have called someone with authority to intercept Navarre. He couldn’t be allowed to leave because he was Raldon’s contact and as dangerous as the dead man had been.
From where would the killers come? The vet’s farm? The same ones who tortured and killed Raldon? Hebrano had insisted that Navarre take the heavy old Colt to protect himself. Thank God he had listened to common sense.
He could no longer stand the odor from the trunk that had impregnated his shirt. Quickly, he tore it off, wadded it in a ball, and threw it into the bushes by the side of the road. He opened the door to the back seat and pulled out a small overnight bag. From the seat beside it he yanked out three twelve-ounce water bottles from their cardboard case. He splashed water from each one over his bare chest, shoulders, and stomach, scrubbing his skin with Kleenex from a traveler’s packet he took from his bag. He rubbed and patted his body dry. Then, from his shaving kit, he withdrew a bottle of aftershave lotion and splashed it over his skin. There was a thermos bottle and one fresh white shirt in his bag, and quickly he buttoned it and tucked it into his wet pants. They’d dry soon enough.
He picked up the Colt from the front seat, hefted it reassuringly, and placed it in his bag. How far was it to the main highway? A mile or two? Maybe less? Time was running out for him, but he hesitated. How far back was it to Duelos and Hebrano? Ten miles at least. Too far to hike in the sun, and he’d be an easy target for anybody who’d been sent after him.
Twenty minutes later, when he reached the intersection of Highway 45, his mouth was cotton dry, his head pounding from the sun and heat. The plastic handle grip of his small bag was wet in his hand from his perspiration. A dozen times he had resisted the impulse to discard it, as he had his jacket, retaining the bag with the small thermos of water. He had held on to the bag for another reason: a motorist would have more confidence in a man carrying a smart overnighter than one stripped of all reassuring signs of comfort. He felt stupid, out of place, dull, and angry. What was he to do? He couldn’t stand out in the broiling sun for long. And the worst heat of the day was yet to come. Quickly, he crossed the
road, his fresh shirt soggy against his back. He was only slightly out of breath when he reached a growth of mesquite trees, prickly, stunted, gnarled, throwing little shade. The top branches of the two trees reached no more than a foot or so above his head.
Well, it was something. Temporary. A vantage point to hide behind and watch for whoever turned up on the unmarked road to Duelos or came to the highway from it. From where he stood he had a view of the highway north and south for a mile in either direction. He’d quickly decided to examine approaching vehicles from his hideout and eventually he’d catch a ride. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that the stinking, hate-filled Zopilote, who exuded vapors of death, had deliberately disabled his car to strand him long enough to allow other ruthless men to arrive and take him by force. There was no need for him to speculate on what would happen once he was in their hands. His fate would be no different than that of his friend who’d been murdered.
The first opportunity was an old black truck with three Mexicans in it going north, in the wrong direction. In the next forty-five minutes after the truck, six more vehicles sped past his position, five of them going north. The sixth was an eighteen-wheeler highballing south and sweeping the puny trees that shielded him with a rush of hot air and diesel fumes. He heard the next car approaching from the south a few minutes later and knew even before he saw it take shape that it was the one that had come for him. He crouched lower behind the screening trees and peered out between the leaves. It was brown, a Chevrolet sedan with a white stripe along the side and a gold decal he couldn’t read. Two uniformed men sat in the front. The car hesitated at the turnoff to the farm, and then swung onto the road. The rear wheels crackled on a patch of sand, skidded, spun, and caught traction, and the car moved off.
Navarre realized his mouth was drier. Fear. How long did he have? Ten minutes for them to find the Buick deserted on the side of the road. They’d stop, check it out. There was no hurry. They’d know he couldn’t go far on foot. What would they do next? Phone the farm, he decided. That would take another ten minutes or so. The brujo would have described him. On the chance that he’d caught a ride, a net would be organized to catch him. Chihuahua would start in motion all of the routine steps necessary to apprehend a dangerous fugitive. Fugitive! Navarre squirmed and shifted his feet. His shoes were tight and prickly with the heat. His feet had swollen. He was miserably hot and sticky. It had taken a moment for him to understand the implication of an official car coming after him. It meant that the police of Chihuahua were somehow involved with Raldon’s assassins. It had to be the case. Nothing else made any sense. How far did the web of intrigue from Duelos spread?
He decided he’d allow himself fifteen minutes longer to catch a ride. Fifteen minutes for a car from the north to pick him up and take him to safety. He glanced at his watch. It was 10 a.m. Hebrano had planned to leave Duelos after saying last rites over Raldon’s grave and would arrive in Chihuahua about two o’clock.
But Navarre couldn’t wait until the priest showed up in his Jeep, even though Hebrano would be on the lookout for him after discovering the abandoned Buick. There was no place for him to hide in the open vehicle. He’d be spotted by the police in the tan cruiser when they returned to the main highway. They were sure to set up a checkpoint to inspect traffic for the fugitive.
To avoid capture he’d head away from the highway soon. Every minute that passed, he felt a greater sense of urgency to abandon his temporary shelter and find a shady spot where he could wait until night fell. When the sun dropped behind the mountains, he’d start walking to Chihuahua. It was not a pleasant thought. That’s when he heard the distant hum of tires coming toward him from the north. He stood attentively, the overnighter gripped in his hand, as the vehicle, a red flash, skimmed through a mirage on the highway like a water bug on the surface of a stream. Then, suddenly, it took shape, moving and flashing incredibly fast on the ribbon of black. One occupant. He was almost too late reaching the margin of the highway. He caught a glimpse of the driver as the low-slung, fire-engine-red Fiat swept by him, racing, blowing a wave of heat in his face. The wind flattened his wet shirt against his skin as he saw a woman at the wheel, who turned her head fractionally to observe him. In the glimpse he had of her—blond hair, bronzed skin, sunglasses—there was a quality he recognized, an indefinable aura of remarkable self-assurance, grace, and boldness that some women have. His wife had had it.
He shifted his slippery grip on the handle and walked back to the hot, sparse shadows of his mesquite-tree shelter, disappointed and bemused by his vivid retention of the girl’s features. Then, the distant whine of an engine caught his attention. Was there a familiar high-rev keening? It was coming from the south. He was fascinated when he saw in the distance the brilliant red Fiat whizzing toward him in the opposite lane. The sun flashed on the long blaze of gleaming hood, the body moving like a bullet. What was she up to? He stepped from behind the tree and walked to the verge of the asphalt. She shifted down as she approached, slowed, and put the Fiat into a crawl as she came abreast of him, her sunglasses pointing in thorough inspection. She took her time about it, letting the Fiat creep when she was directly opposite him, a hundred feet separating them. The motor’s purring sound was a steady, whispering beat as she stared at him through her tinted window glass. Cool and confident she was, a bird poised on the edge of flight if he made a motion toward her.
Suddenly, she gunned the motor. He saw her laugh, and the Fiat screamed north, leaving a streak of rubber on the road surface. The Arizona plates receded quickly. Crazy bitch, he thought as he saw her disappear with a roar over a dip. He started to return to his smothering stand when he heard the sound of screeching tires. A minute later, she was aiming like a swift, ground-hugging, brilliant lizard up from the dip which had swallowed her and was gaining flat ground. She pulled up beside him smoothly, the motor growling.
He didn’t move until he saw her push the electric button, and the window facing him slid down about six inches. She leaned toward him slightly, raising her voice. “I had to turn around. Are you going to stand there and gape or get in?” He heard the door lock click open.
Navarre opened the door, glanced quickly at the road to the farm, tucked his overnight bag behind the passenger seat, and breathed deeply of the swirl of cool air conditioning.
“Thanks,” he said, as she expertly shifted the gear from low to second and, gathering speed, deftly put in the clutch and moved the gear knob fluidly to the fourth-speed position.
“Why did you come back?” he asked.
“A hunch, intuition, who knows? When I passed you I thought you might be American. You didn’t stand like a Mexican. Got the dark good looks, though. I was a mile away before I decided to turn back and have another look. If you’d tried a convincing smile or made appealing motions, I’d have left you flat, but you knew that, didn’t you?”
She glanced at him with appraising swiftness. Her eyes behind the square, dark, fashionable sunglasses were still cautious, he suspected.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Her eyes were casually on the road, the speedometer needle registering eighty-five.
“Thomas Navarre.”
“That’s an ambitious name. Uncommon in Mexico, but honored in Spain.”
Navarre smiled. “My mother loved the name. I think she married my dad so she could adopt it.”
“Then you’re Spanish?”
“Only half. Not Spanish, Mexicano. My mother’s Irish, lace-curtain Irish, as she likes to say.”
“I think I’d like your mother. What are you doing out here alone without transportation?”
“I’m a transplanted Texan, a university professor. On a sabbatical. I teach in a small eastern college.” Deciding suddenly on an edited version of the truth, Navarre said, “I came back to Mexico to see a friend, a Jesuit missionary. His church is in Chihuahua. Santa María Iglesia. He’s a visiting cleric who travels to the desert and mountain villages. I missed him in Chihuahua yesterday and drove to Duelos,
a tiny village off the road not far from where you picked me up. We became friends after he said last rites for my wife, who was killed in an accident two years ago. We visited and I stayed the night with him. Then on my way south I had a flat on my car and when I checked the spare, it was punctured. I should have checked it before I left the rental agency in El Paso.”
“I imagine the accident that killed your wife is where you got that scar on your forehead?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Navarre replied with an edge to his voice.
“I do apologize. I had no business prying. Still, you don’t seem to be the type of man who makes shrines to the past.”
“You saw that in the three seconds it took you to fly by me? Why did you bother to stop?”
She chuckled wryly. “Snap judgments are my business. I’m an actress. My name is Yuma Haynes. No reason for you to recognize it. I’ve had a few good, small film parts. There’s a company shooting a picture near Casas Grandes, way over budget. I quit when the new director they flew in insisted on a private audition of my talents in his trailer. So I split. Bastard. I told him to kiss off. He was furious. He swore he’d have me blackballed.”